


diversion

by days4daisy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e02 The Child, Extra Treat, M/M, Massage, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “The stories mentioned nothing about the beskar. Are you also forbidden to remove your armor in the same way that you cannot remove your helmet?”Din spins on his seat to look up at Kuiil. With the change in position, Kuiil’s hand slips from his back. “Why do you ask?” Din asks.“I’m asking because I would like you to remove it,” Kuiil replies.
Relationships: Kuiil (Star Wars)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	diversion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



Kuiil sets a hand between his shoulders.

The texture of Kuiil's skin remains a mystery with Din’s armor, but the weight of his fingers is easy to feel. The ugnaught’s hands are thick and sturdy uncovered by their usual gloves.

Din tries to remember when he was last touched in this way. There have been occasions for a jovial smack of the arm or a dispassionate pat on the shoulder. But Kuiil’s hand lingers, and Din wishes he could see his face. He sits at the humble table inside Kuiil’s home. Kuiil stands behind him, hand flat across his back.

In a side nook, the child still sleeps after whatever happened to it during the retrieval of the egg. Telling the story to Kuiil more than once has not helped to make sense of what happened.

Din’s body carries an accumulation of aches. The battle to find the child. Chasing Jawas. Facing the mudhorn. A long night spent reassembling his stripped ship. Kuiil’s hand is the only piece of Din that does not hurt.

“I...can’t remove my helmet,” Din says, and it’s with surprise that he recognizes the strange note in his voice as regret.

A long pause follows, and though it’s shameful for one of his creed, Din hopes Kuiil does not remove his hand because of it.

“Do you trust me?” Kuiil asks at last.

Acquaintances for a matter of days. Din should not, but they both know Kuiil has been more to him than a stray bystander. He’s been a gracious host. A voice of reason. An ally. A friend, or at least the beginning of one. “Yes.”

“Then you believed me when I told you I’d read the stories. I don’t pretend to understand your religion, Mando, but I respect it. I would not ask that of you.”

Din blows out a grateful breath. Even with his armor in the way, Kuiil must feel the knot between his shoulders loosen. Din’s back sinks into an exaggerated bow, and he sets forearms on the table for balance.

“The work is almost done,” Din says. “With no setbacks, we'll be on our way in the morning. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’ll pay for your labor and the use of your tools.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Kuiil replies. Din can’t see his face, but he can hear the humor that must be warming his eyes. “If you don’t mind my asking, I do have a question about your people.”

Din normally tenses at these kinds of starts, but his only reaction now is curiosity. “What is it?” he asks.

“The stories mentioned nothing about the beskar. Are you also forbidden to remove your armor in the same way that you cannot remove your helmet?”

Din spins on his seat to look up at Kuiil. With the change in position, Kuiil’s hand slips from his back. “Why do you ask?” Din asks.

“I’m asking because I would like you to remove it,” Kuiil replies.

Din is no stranger to overtures like these. They’re made in jest more often than not, and even when they happen to be sincere Din’s interest lacks. There are few in this galaxy he trusts enough to expose himself to without his armor intact. Kuiil has already seen Din without the shattered remains of his chest guard. But without everything?

“Why?” Din asks. The question slips out quieter than planned.

“I cannot feel you with it on,” Kuiil says. He offers the answer as calmly as he would advice about blurrg feed. But within a matter of days, Din has come to recognize the meanings in Kuiil’s eyes. They brighten when he teases, and they narrow when he means what he says. Kuiil’s gaze now is serious, head dipped towards his chest.

Din can’t remember when one outside his own kind last set a hand on him without his armor. To remove his armor is to feel exposed. It is one thing to say he trusts someone, but it’s another to leave himself unguarded. There has been no need for such things in years, any overture is a distraction from who he is and what he does.

But he recognizes the telltale jump of his heart and the long-absent warmth down his spine. He takes a deep breath. Even this shows too much to someone he’s just met.

“The child,” Din says. It isn’t a protest, more of an excuse. A chance to deny something he has no other reason to pretend he doesn’t want.

“It sleeps still,” Kuiil assures him. “With what you told me of what happened, I would expect it to slumber until morning. And,” he adds, “I mean to feel you. I do not mean to expose you if that is not what you want.”

The ugnaught has the uncanny ability to say what Din needs to hear at any given moment. Din rises stiffly from his seat at Kuiil’s table.

Removal of his armor is a routine he follows every night. He’s had years to become accustomed to the practice. But no matter how many times he has gone through the same motions, they feel awkward now. His fingers stumble over the buckles, and it takes multiple tries to release them. His arms see the same discord, armor abruptly feeling out of place.

He was not aware the ugnaught had risen in his esteem so much. It wasn’t wise to let him do that.

The tunic Din wears underneath is still damp with sweat from the ship work. It has blood and dirt stains. Both are preferable to the sight underneath, skin disfigured by scars and bruises. His naked body is too much for Kuiil to see.

Armor set in a pile on the floor, Din returns to his seat at Kuiil’s table. The room’s temperature cools without his steel in place. An evening breeze shifts in through Kuiil’s open doorway. It feels good against Din’s drying clothes.

Seated, back bowed, a smile of skin shows between Din’s tunic and the start of his helmet. Kuiil’s hand blankets this patch. He has weathered, working skin, and his touch scratches. But his hand is warmer than any touch Din has had in a long time. Din clasps hands on the table in front of him, an unsteady breath hidden by his mask.

“Bounty hunting appears stressful, even for one of your reputation.” Fingers thick as screwdriver bases dip under the threshold of Din’s garment. The palm of Kuiil’s hand weighs against the top of Din’s spine. Kuiil makes sweat-warmed skin heat further. Din’s next exhale is heavy enough for Kuiil to hear.

“It has its moments,” Din says. He sounds soft as air to his own ears.

“A lonely occupation too, I think.”

Kuiil’s fingers scritch in slow succession, like the knead of dough in a kitchen. The touch is soft, soothing, and unlike anything Din remembers feeling in so long. It’s a struggle not to relax under Kuiil’s touch. To lower one’s guard is not the way, even with those he trusts. And he does trust Kuiil, no matter the short time they’ve known each other. He trusts Kuiil to do this, but he does not trust himself to accept the gesture in the right way.

Din forces a brusque chuckle. “Solitude doesn’t seem like something you should criticize.”

“I’m not,” Kuiil says. His hand pinches forward and back. Sensation trembles through Din’s chest and slides like a refresher full of warm water down his back. “I relish my peaceful valley. But it’s the choice I’ve made. And my solitude wanes from time to time. Like when you came along.”

It is difficult to follow Kuiil's words. His hand is strong yet calming. A piece of Din wants to sleep by it, another wants to be provoked. He sees this same hand in other parts of his body, parts even longer removed from the naked touch of another.

“You should come with me tomorrow.” The words come before Din realizes he means to make the offer. “I’ll pay well for one of your skill, especially now that you’ve seen the inner workings of the Razor Back up close.”

Kuiil’s hand stills between his shoulders. Din catches teeth on his cheek before a disappointed sound can slip free.

“I’m honored,” Kuiil tells him, “but my choice is to be free. Thanks to you, the fuss is gone, and I can enjoy my quiet again.”

His hand resumes its patient stroke. Din manages to breathe again, exhales shuddering through open lips. “You’ll have until morning to change your mind,” he mumbles.

“A few hours until then,” Kuiil muses. “You should sleep.”

“I won’t,” Din says, though the ugnaught’s hand could ease him in this direction.

Kuiil huffs behind him. Din can almost see the sparkle in his eyes. “Then perhaps,” he suggests, “we can find a more suitable way to pass the time.”

Din closes his eyes at the suggestion, but it doesn’t matter. The ideas Kuiil’s words spark follow Din regardless. Taking the leap of faith necessary to remove his garments. Kuiil’s heavy hands running down paths untouched by anyone in years.

“The child.” Din’s protest sounds weak to his own ears.

“Asleep,” Kuiil assures him.

Din shakes his head. “I'm...not sure that's wise." But he wants to, wise or not.

Kuiil’s hand stops again. This time Din can’t bite back his groan of loss.

“In that case,” he says, “sleep may be for the best. There is food for you on the counter. Eat. I’ll retire to bed and won’t emerge, don’t worry. When you’re done, join me if you’d like. You are my guest, and I’d like for you to lie beside me.”

When Kuiil removes his hand, it takes all Din’s strength not to grab his wrist and force him to resume. Phantom weight from Kuiil’s fingers lingers as Din turns to look at him. “You’ve already done too much,” Din admits.

Kuiil shakes his head. “I have spoken,” he states.

Before Din can think of a worthy counter, Kuiil is padding to his meager bedroom. Din watches him go. It strikes him how one of Kuiil’s age and physical limitations worked as tirelessly as Din to repair a ship that isn't even his. Putting in every bit of effort with his hands. The same hands Din wishes he still felt against his back.

He looks at the bowl of stew on the counter. Cold by now, but well-seasoned if this offering is like the other meals Din has shared from Kuiil’s fire.

Only, what Din wants now will not come from a full stomach. He turns towards Kuiil’s doorway and the promise behind it.

With a sharp, decided breath, Din gathers his armor and gets up.

He pauses to check on the child. Still sleeping as Kuiil said, a steady in and out puffing from his little mouth.

With an exhale of his own, Din follows Kuiil’s trail to bed.


End file.
